"But it would generate publicity. When the newspaper starts publishing, we'll get all kinds of coverage. They've promised to review our productions."
"They're dreaming! Who'll qualify as a drama critic in Moose County?"
"You," she said with her sweet smile.
Qwilleran huffed into his moustache. "How can I sit in the fifth row, center, taking notes at the same time I'm onstage blowing the bugle and charging up San Juan Hill?"
"You'll figure it out." She could be infuriatingly illogical one minute and a frighteningly straight thinker the next. "Will the theater be ready on schedule?"
"They've promised, but anything can happen in the building trades: electricians are electrocuted; plumbers drown; painters inhale toxic fumes; carpenters bleed to death."
"What would you think of an original revue for the grand opening, instead of a Broadway play?"
"What kind of material?"
"Humorous skits... witty parodies... a chorus line... comic acts. Harley and David have a funny twin act that they do. Susan danced in college; she can do choreography."
"Do you have a theme in mind?"
"It should be a spoof of contemporary life, don't you think.? I mean-politics, television, fashion, pop music, the IRS - anything. Preferably tied in with Moose County."
"And who would write these humorous skits and witty parodies?" he demanded.
"You!" There was that tantalizing smile again.
Qwilleran growled a protest. "That would take a lot of time and thought, and you know I'm writing a novel, Fran."
She looked at her watch. "Well, think about it. Now I've got to go home. I'm expecting a long-distance call from Mother. She's visiting my aunt Down Below. Thanks for your input, Qwill. See your tomorrow night at seven sharp."
Qwilleran walked home slowly, enjoying the soft breezes of a spring evening. On Monday nights the downtown area was always deserted, and an eerie silence fell upon Main Street. His footsteps echoed in the canyon created by the stone buildings.
The idea of an original revue began to appeal to him. He had written student shows in college. It might be fun to write parodies of well-known songs, one for each town in Moose County. The early settlers had given them outlandish names: Sawdust City, Chipmunk, Squunk Corners, Middle Hummock, West Middle Hummock, Wildcat, Smith's Folly, Mooseville, even a village named Brrr. (It was the coldest spot in the county.)
The parodies would be easy, he thought. He tried a few opening lines, and his rich baritone reverberated in the stone canyon:
"Everything's out of date in Sawdust
City... "
"Way down upon the Ittibittiwassee
....
"Mid-dle Hum-mock, here I come!..."
"April in Chipmunk; ragweed in blossom... "
"When it's Big Mosquito time in
Mooseville..."
"I'm just wild about Wildcat..."
All too soon he reached the Park Circle. Here Main Street divided and circled a small park, on the perimeter of which were two churches, the courthouse, the public library, and the future theater. There was a nightlight in the construction shed, but the long driveway to the carriage house was in darkness. The moon had ducked behind a cloud, and he had forgotten to turn on the exterior lights at the comers of the carriage house.
He unlocked the door leading to the upstairs apartment and reached inside to flick the wall switch. The light fixture did not respond; neither did the light at the top of the stairs. A power outage, he supposed. The local joke was that Pickax blacked out if the weatherman even predicted a thunder storm. He started to mount the stairs in the dark. Brodie was right; they were steep, and the treads were narrow. They seemed narrower and steeper in total darkness. Slowly and carefully he went up, gripping the handrail.
Halfway to the top Qwilleran stopped. There was a strong odor in the stairwell - almost like coffee - or something burning. Electrical wires? He had a fear of fire when the cats were home alone.
At that moment he heard a sound he could not identify. He listened hard. The cats were locked in their apartment at the far end of the building, and it was not an animal sound; it was a scraping, like metal on wood. He remembered the wrought-iron coat of arms leaning against the wall in the upper hallway. If it came crashing down the stairs, it would send him flying to the bottom of the flight. He flattened himself against the wall and slid upward, one cautious step at a time.
In the upper hall he paused and listened. He felt a presence. There was no sound, but someone was there - breathing. The living-room door was open, and he was sure he had closed it before leaving. The total darkness indicated that the blinds were closed, and he was sure he had left them open. Now he was positive he could hear breathing, and he saw two red eyes glowing in the blacked-out room.
Stealthily he groped for the light switch inside the door, hoping it was operative. His hand touched something hairy.
From his throat came a horrendous roar-like a trapped lion, a wounded elephant, and a sick camel. It was a curse he had learned in North Africa.
Instantly there was light, and a chorus of tremulous voices managed a weak "Happy birthday!"
There were two dozen persons in the room, looking either shaken or sheepish or guilty.
"Dammit, you knuckleheads!" Qwilleran bellowed. "You could give a guy a heart attack!... What's this?"
Towering above him was a black bear with glass eyes and gaping jaws, rearing on hind legs, one paw over the light switch.
The two glowing spots of red were lights on a small machine. It stood on the travertine card table, plugged in and bubbling.
"I'm sorry," said Francesca. "It was my idea. We used the key you gave me."
Harley Fitch said, "My clone gets credit for the dramatic staging."
"My clone unscrewed the lightbulbs," said his brother, David, the one with a moustache. "He stood on my shoulders and ruined my golf swing permanently."
Qwilleran confronted Francesca."So that's why you kept me overtime. I wondered why you looked at your watch every five minutes."
Larry Lanspeak said, "We needed a half hour to get set up. We had to park our cars out of sight and hike over here and wrestle the bear up those damn stairs and then hide Wally's van."
Wally Toddwhistle, a young taxidermist, said, "I happened to have the bear in my van. I'm delivering it to a customer."
"How did you guys know it's my birthday?" Fran said, "Dad ran a check on your driver's registration."
"And what's that thing?" He pointed to the machine with the two red lights.
"That's a gift from all of us," said David's wife. "A protest against the lethal coffee you serve. You set it for the number of cups you want and the strength you prefer. A timer turns it on."
Then someone produced paper plates and cups, and someone else unveiled a sheet cake decorated with a bugle and the theater's traditional wish: "Break a leg, darling!"
As QwiIleran began to simmer down, the cast and crew of Arsenic and Old Lace relaxed. They were all there: Carol Lanspeak and Susan Exbridge, who were playing the wacky old sisters; Larry Lanspeak, a versatile character actor; Harley and David Fitch, who liked to do drunks, weirdos, and monsters; David's clever wife, Jill, who designed sets and costumes; Wally Toddwhistle, a genius at building sets out of orange crates, baling wire, and glue; Derek Cuttlebrink, who was attempting his first role; Eddington Smith, painfully ill at ease; and other members of the troupe whom Qwilleran knew only slightly. They were all talking at once:
Susan: "Darling, your entrance in the second act was marvelous!"